


Don't Do This Again

by Darknessalwaysfalls



Series: Transgender and Older Sam [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John, Adorable Dean, Age Swap, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Different Plot, Dubious Consent, FTM Sam, Gender Identity, John Winchester's Bad Parenting, Male Pronouns, Older Brother Sam Winchester, Other, Prostitution, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Transgender Sam, Weechesters, Younger Brother Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darknessalwaysfalls/pseuds/Darknessalwaysfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Supernatural AU with a transgender and older Sam. John is gone longer than he said he would be again, making his final transgression against Sam that destroys their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Do This Again

**Author's Note:**

> I changed the warning to non-con, because it is dubious consent since Sam is so young and he can't find any other options and I really don't want to trigger anyone.
> 
> If Sam and Dean seem out of character, it's because they are. I took some liberty in switching the ages of the boys which more than likely will cause changes to their dynamic relationship and their personalities. However, I am only showing what I think would be the result and anyone is of course welcome to disagree, even encouraged to. Criticism and suggestions are more than appreciated.

_Kansas City, Missouri_

One of the main reasons Sam remembers the name of the place they stayed at was because it was a city and they didn't get many hunting jobs in cities.

Two weeks had past and Dad still wasn't back yet. He had said that he was going to be back in a week and while Sam was worried about him, there was a more pressing concern at the moment. There wasn't enough money. The money their father had given to Sam had already been stretched to accommodate the meals of the second week and Sam had already forgone eating the last couple of days to try and further stretch the food it bought. But there was not enough to pay for the second week of the motel room and the due date for the payment was tomorrow. The clerk was already suspicious with the lack of an adult and the last thing that they needed is CPS getting involved when they figure out that there wasn't a parent in the room during the process of kicking the boys out. As much as Sam longed for a normal life, he wasn't going to chance being separated from Dean. 

Dean, although old enough to be worried about the diminishing food supply and the absence of his father at nine years old, did not yet know what exactly it meant or the looming problem of eviction. Sam wanted to keep it that way. So now came the problem of how to get more money. Sam had tried calling Dad several times both to confirm his health and to get him to come back sooner, but the phone just went immediately to voicemail. Getting a job was impossible at Sam's age as he was still in middle school, and even if he was able to convince the employer that he was 16, there wasn't enough time to earn enough for a motel room. However, it was hot and Sam noticed on the way back from the grocery store (after spending the last of the money on spaghetti-os) that several of the city houses and apartment buildings needed their tiny lawns mowed. A plan started forming in his head. 

As it turns out, most people don't trust two skinny looking boys dressed in ill-fitting clothes to use their gardening equipment. Only two houses and two apartment complexes actually agreed and two had elderly couples that seemed enraptured by Dean's freckles and Sam's puppy-dog eyes. Sam had Dean weed the edges while he used their lawnmower. Regardless of the elderly people's generous offerings, Sam realized at the end of the day that he was still short by almost a hundred dollars. Sam sighed as he counted the money again, just to make sure. Nope, no magically appearing twenties. 

Sam looked to where Dean was sprawled, facedown and on top of all the sheets, across the bed farthest from the door. His oversized boots were still on, hand-me-downs from Sam, and his grimy hands were gripping the comforter, probably leaving smears of dirt on the ugly flower pattern. Sam sighed again. Leaving the money on the tiny kitchen table, he made his way over to Dean. Tugging gently on his boots, he was able to slip them off Dean's feet. Dean barely stirred, only curling his toes and releasing his grip on the print to stick his thumb into his mouth. Something that Dean swears he never does because that's what babies do and confirming to Sam that yes there were dirty fingerprints marring the faded flowers. 

Sam shuddered, thinking of all the germs Dean had just put in his mouth. Placing the boots by the door, he traveled to the bathroom. Returning to Dean with a damp washcloth, he carefully cleaned the 9 year old's non-occupied hand. The cold wetness of the cloth caused him to mumble sleepily. Sam smiled. Dean would normally be horrified to be taken care of again when he keeps insisting that he can do everything by himself. Moving the sucked thumb out of his brother's mouth, Sam was able to quick clean that hand before it jerked away with grumble. Dean shifted to his side and the thumb went back between his lips. Sam noticed that mud had been smeared across his cheek. Moving quickly, before Dean could shift to a new position, he wiped the offending dirt away. Dean finally seemed to wake up a little more as one tired green eye cracked open to glare at his older brother. Sam ignored Dean's indignation and gradually coaxed him under the covers where he fell right asleep on his stomach again. Thankfully, he tucked both his hands under the pillow this time. 

Sam watched him sleep for a moment, the now dirty washcloth drying in his hands. His stomach growled lightly, reminding him about the problem that still existed. Annoyance quickly followed by anger coursed through him. Why did they have to worry about this? Why did he have to go hungry to ensure that Dean doesn't? Dean deserved a normal childhood. They deserved a normal childhood. Why did they have to sacrifice a perfectly beautiful day to work when they should have been able to play like all the other kids he saw today? Riding shiny bikes and shouting to each other about soccer games in someone's backyard? They shouldn't have to face starvation, or have to move every couple of weeks. They shouldn't have to worry about whether their father was alive or hurt or about the things out there that everyone else was so blissfully unaware about. 

Tears gathered in his hazel eyes. Sam blinked and wiped his eyes furiously with one hand as he threw the washcloth into the bathroom. It wasn't fair. But it's not like the problem wasn't still there. His anger softened when he saw Dean move in his sleep. 

Sam sniffed a little, trying to think about other options. He knew how to play pool and cards because their father had made sure to teach them. While he knew he wasn't the best at playing under the table to con people of their money, this would probably be the only way the deficit could be made up. The clock said 7 o'clock. The bar across the street was open. Hopefully the manager would overlook his clearly questionable age. Sam sighed again. Throwing on a sweatshirt that was generally clean and checking all the salt lines and windows, he stepped out of the motel room and locked the door behind him. 

Once he reached the bar, he slipped inside without the bartender noticing and headed straight for the pool tables in the back. He watched a couple of games to judge the contenders' skills. Most were casual and lazy, likely not prone to picking fights or providing too much of a challenge. Sam made sure to deepen his voice before asking to play while relaxing his body to seem less suspicious. Only one man asked the usual question. 

"Where's your parents, kid?" He said, peering at Sam intently. His ball cap attempted to hide his obviously balding head although his face was youthful. 

"My father's at the bar." Sam lied easily, gesturing vaguely in that direction. "I really want to try though." He gave his best puppy-dog eyes. The guy seemed satisfied and shrugged. 

"Sure, kid. I'll go easy on ya." 

Three games later, Sam was just about to challenge his opponents to a money award. He had pretended to be a newbie at first and purposely lost the first two with a faked gradual change of improvement. The last game he had finally played to his opponents' level and lost by a small margin. Sam had excited them to the point that they were taking him seriously, if more impressed than anything. Confident that he could easily win, Sam opened his mouth to make the bet, when a rough hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"What do you think you're doing here, boy?" A middle-aged man shouted in his face, he had a least a foot of height on the young teen. Sam quickly recognized the man as the bartender. He sputtered for a quick answer when one of the guys he was playing spoke up. 

"Give him a break, Mickey. The kid got a parent drinking at the bar."

"No, he don't. Only regulars are there now and none of 'em have kids." Mickey shot back. His meaty hand tightened on Sam's shoulder. Panicking and annoyed at having lost the last chance to earn some money, Sam tried to squirm out of his grasp. He nearly succeeded. The man narrowed his dark eyes. 

"No, you don't." His other hand snapped to the neck of Sam's hoodie. Sam cringed away as the bartender reeled him in close enough that Sam could smell onions on his breath. "You aren't getting away with this, boy."

Sam was going into full panic mode. Not only had he failed in getting more money for the motel rent, he might even be arrested for being in a bar underage. He wasn't sure if he could get charged for that since he didn't try to order anything, but more attention was not needed. Just as Sam was tempted to perform one of the self-defense moves that their father had taught him, the voices of his opponents spoke up. 

"Hey, Mickey, let the kid go. He wasn't trying to order anything."

"Yeah, man. He was just playing pool."

"Minors aren't allowed in here." The thickset man defended himself. 

"Yeah, but he wasn't doing no harm. Just let him go."

The bartender grumbled, but released Sam. Sam stumbled back as fast as possible, eyes wide with residual panic. 

"Get outa here, boy, before I change my mind." Mickey said. Sam hastily nodded and immediately sprinted out of the bar. As the door slammed shut behind him, Sam allowed himself to breathe. A mixture of resignation and frustration quickly stomped out the rest of his panic. He had been so close. So close to securing their motel room. So close to surviving.

Making his way back across the street empty handed, Sam noticed a young woman, she couldn't be more than 17, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the side of the brightly lit building next to the bar. She wore fishnet stockings with black boots and a skirt so tiny it didn't even cover the bottom of her ass. Her skintight shirt ended before her navel and exposed the tops of her boobs. A drunk man stumbled up to her and Sam witnessed as money passed between them. The woman beckoned him into the alleyway on the other side of the club and the man followed. It wouldn't take a genius to guess what profession she was in. Although this was the first prostitute Sam had seen on this particular street, he knew that the majority of them solicited several blocks down, near the club district and another motel that sold rooms by the hour. 

An idea reluctantly began forming. Sam shook his head as he dug in his jeans for the keys to their room, trying to convince himself that there was another way, but the idea refused to leave. He opened the door, stepped carefully over the salt line, and closed the door behind him. It was past 8 o'clock now. Dean was still asleep, nestled under the sheets, although the comforter had been kicked off. It was warm outside. The inadequate amount of money still sat on the tiny table, mocking him with how close he came to saving them from the streets. Sam stripped off his hoodie. Silently arguing with himself, he sat on the bed closest to the door. 

They needed money. Sam knew generally how sex worked. He had heard the other kids at school talk about it, especially the older kids. He had witnessed several people make-out and grind and heard the sounds of coupling through the thin walls of motels. Personally, he had never felt the urge. Some things felt good, but nobody activated the need. Sam knew he was different, but not being sexual seemed low on the problem scale and more of a positive considering his differences in anatomy compared to other boys. Those differences could be utilized. Judging by how much money he saw pass between the man and woman earlier, he could earn enough money after just a few transactions. 

Sacrificing himself for others in the hunting business was what they did. What was the difference in sacrificing himself for Dean and his own survival? Yet, whispers of distress echoed in his mind. He would be sacrificing whatever innocence he had left. He would be sacrificing his identity. But there was no other way to keep them from the streets. He couldn't count on Dad appearing to save the day. He had to get enough money to at least pay for the week and keep their residence while he figured out another way to earn money. It was only one night. He didn't have the luxury of choice. There was no other way. Sighing, he made his decision. 

***********

It was harder than he thought. Attracting customers seemed to be the most difficult part other than finding a free corner. Even wearing the too short dress he had found at the bottom of his duffle bag, (likely left over from his younger years before he convinced John that he was a boy not a girl) his body wasn't exactly feminine. Even without the useful sports bra that squashed what little chest puberty started to give him, he did not have curves. This was normally a plus but now seemed to act against him. Still, after watching the other prostitutes, Sam figured out how to proposition and how to collect. Now came the wait. 

It was past nine by the time he had arrived on the right street. His age would likely only attract a certain demographic that might prove dangerous. He felt so wrong dressed like this even without the added danger. Just to be safe, a silver knife was hidden in his boots. At least he could wear his boots as assurance of his true gender. Eventually, his first customer approached, but seeing the overweight, sweaty and pale man drunkenly make his way toward him caused Sam to chicken out at the last second and run before telling him the cost. Cursing, Sam calmed down and reasoned with himself to try again. Thirty minutes later, he was able to finally make a transaction smoothly. His first time was with a man three times his age in a dirty alleyway. It was rough, uncomfortable, and hurt more than he anticipated. While he expected the blood, it was a little more unnerving than he thought it would be. But he held wrinkled dollar bills in one palm as he cleaned himself up and compulsively smoothed down his dress, trying to stop his hands from shaking. 

The next exchanges varied in their success, but he crossed the threshold of their room at 1 o'clock with enough money for the motel rent and extra for a couple more days of food. The only damage consisted of some scrapped knees, finger shaped bruises, and a soreness deep inside. All in all, a better physical damage report than the average hunt. 

Yet, Sam didn't feel like it was a success. He just felt tired. Dean was still sleeping peacefully. The salt lines were intact and the room was how he left it. Sam felt that there should be something different, something that marked his own experience, but there was nothing. He felt numb and he didn't know if it was because of an overload of emotions in response to his actions or this new type of exhaustion. He kicked off his boots, the money still safely hidden in the sole. Suddenly, everything felt so _wrong_. The smell of body fluids coming off his clothes and his _body_ overwhelmed him. 

Sam rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door as quickly and quietly as possible. He barely made it to the toilet before throwing up violently, mostly dry heaving. Tears streamed down his face as his stomach spasmed painfully. Sobs finally shuddered through him. Sam sat on the floor of the bathroom for a while, hugging himself and letting his forehead rest on the cool toilet seat as his emotions poured through his body. 

After what seemed like hours but was likely only minutes, the emotions in his tired body slowly stopped their assault. An emptiness lingered in their wake. Sam flushed the toilet and stripped off the ruined dress, throwing the offensive clothing into the trash. Stepping into the tub, he took a thorough shower. He washed his short hair three times before he was satisfied and scrubbed himself raw in places he thought he could still feel grease until the water turned cool. Stepping out, he quickly dried himself off, wrapped the thin towel around him, and opened the bathroom door. Peering out, Sam saw that Dean had not moved from his position. He thanked whatever god there was that his younger brother had slept through his breakdown. No use in explaining shame. 

Sam padded over to his duffle and got dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. Looking around the old floral motel room, he started noticing the dirty pots in the sink, his muddy jeans from mowing lawns draped over one of the chairs, the comforter that had been kicked off Dean's bed, his wet towel on the floor, newspaper clippings scattered around, his boots askew at the door with the money stuffed in the sole and knife sticking out. The room felt as dirty as he was. As wrong. He should clean up. Make it right. He needed to clean up. Running around the room, Sam started busying himself with chores. He straightened the boots and removed the money and weapon. Consolidating the money from the lawns and the most recent activity, he organized it by amount then year. Placing the bills in a nice pile on the tiny table, Sam then picked up all the newspaper clippings and organized them by importance in another pile next to the money. The cooking pots were then cleaned, rinsed, and set to dry on a dishtowel. The comforter was folded and placed on the end of Dean's bed after the fingerprints on the floral pattern were scrubbed out. Dirty clothes were stuffed in a plastic bag and set by the door to take to the laundry mat now that they could afford it. Sam took out the trash in the bathroom and the main room and threw it in the dumpster outside. The salt lines were reapplied. The weapons that were out were cleaned and placed on the nightstand by Sam's bed in easy reach. The wet towel and washcloth were hung up. 

Finally, when everything seemed in order, Sam slid into the bed closest to the door. It was almost 2:30 am. Sam sighed. Getting out of the bed, he went back into the kitchen and put away the pots, before finally settling under the sheets. Yet, sleep evaded him. The gnawing hunger was still trying to claw its way out of his stomach. The other ache inside refused to subside. A constant reminder of shame and resignation. He still felt dirty and _wrong_. 

Sam turned over, checking on Dean. His younger brother had shifted little. His face was mashed into the pillow, mouth parted enough to allow him to drool. As Sam watched him sleep, he began to relax. At least his little brother was safe and fed. Resolve suddenly strengthened his gaze. He would make sure that Dean grew up with as much normal as possible. He would make sure he never knew the sacrifices made to create that normal. He knew that normal was now impossible for him with the last of his innocence taken. It might have always been impossible. But it didn't have to be impossible for Dean. Sam would make sure to save Dean's innocence. The younger boy deserved that much. With that resolution made, Sam fell asleep. 

In the morning, he was able to give the rent to the clerk and buy enough food for five more days. He would search for work the next three. When John finally appeared, four days had passed since Sam had paid for the motel room. The man pulled up in the Impala, mostly unharmed, only a nasty looking scrape across his cheek and a cast on his wrist. Sam was waiting on the steps in front of the motel room door. Dean was inside, watching cartoons. When John got out of the car, Sam watched, impassioned. As John made to say something, Sam stood up, his icy hazel eyes freezing him in his tracks and the hard expression on his young face striking John silent. 

"Get us a new way to pay. I don't care how. Don't do this again." Sam said before turning his back to the older man and entering the motel room. 

His son's words chilled whatever anger he would have had at the commanding tone from his oldest. Sam's voice was completely devoid of emotion. If John hadn't known that Sam could make such a challenge to his authority, he would have reached for the holy water. While he would eventually wonder how Sam had gotten enough money to provide for them, Sam refused to even glance at him and merely said he did what he had to in the coldest voice while Dean said that they had mowed lawns. Assuming that his eldest son had stolen the money and that he was upset because it had violated the boy's uptight morals, John didn't approach the subject again, more ashamed that he hadn't given Sam enough money in the first place. The cold shoulder act from Sam didn't abate for several weeks until John finally handed him a credit card, the product of the scams and tricks learned from other hunters, and a list of numbers of other safe hunters to call during emergencies. Even with this apparent compromise, their relationship never recovered. A reflection of the new resigned and dead look John sometimes caught on Sam's face.


End file.
